


Freckles, Shake

by CaptainTucker



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Other Additional Tags to Be Added
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-04
Updated: 2014-09-28
Packaged: 2018-02-11 17:01:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2075964
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaptainTucker/pseuds/CaptainTucker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The tiniest change can have huge repercussions.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Freckles, Shake!

**Author's Note:**

> I saw this post (kaikainagrif.tumblr.com/post/77933210295/dickie-b-mdecarabas-tvckingtons-but-what) on tumblr, and it gave me ideas. So I started writing, and now I'm at 3000 words and they're still coming. Enjoy this first chapter!

It goes like this: Donut still goes down first, takes the blunt of a grenade blown up by Locus’ long shot. Tucker still runs the gauntlet, and shuts down Basebook. Lopez in Dos Point-O’s body saves him from the Federal soldier. They start heading back to the others. But then, everything changes.

 -----

Locus takes down Sarge first, tired of the constant prattling. This is his first mistake. The moment the blast flies past Wash’s head, he’s on the move. He slams into Grif and then Simmons as he takes off towards Sarge’s body, shouting at them to _move_ and grabbing at arms and pushing at backs until they do. Locus’ next shot misses him by an inch as he grabs Sarge’s waist and hoists him up under his arm like a sack of potatoes. Now is _not_ the time for delicacy, it’s the time for _get-the-fuck-out-of-Locus’-range-before-they-all-die_. He takes off for the semi-sheltered room where Donut’s still lying, yelling at Caboose to get in there too. Thankfully, Caboose does as he’s told immediately, and they all get there without any further injuries. Wash quickly checks Sarge and Donut – they’re both still breathing, and though they’re also both unconscious, it doesn’t seem too bad. It looks like the armour took most of the impacts, thank god for small mercies. They hear Tucker, still halfway across the canyon, yell as another shot rings out, and all of them tense up, until they hear him again, yelling at Lopez to just “pick up the fucking arm and run, you stupid robot! We can put it back on you later!”, and then they all relax again. Or at least as much as they can relax with bullets still flying everywhere, most of them aimed at their bodies.

 

“We need to get out of here Felix, where’s that backup!?” Wash calls, poking at the crack in Donut’s helmet to make sure it won’t collapse and do more damage when they finally manage to get out of there. He has a feeling it’s going to involve a lot of running and carrying, and he doesn’t want to accidentally hurt the young man.

“I don’t _know_!” Felix yells back with venom, diving into the shelter with them and sliding to a stop. “They should already be here by now!”

“Well they’re not! And if _we_ stay here much longer, we’re all going to die!” Wash returns, his voice pitching higher. “Tucker, where the fuck are you?!” he screeches over the comms, peeking up over the edge of one of the crates and immediately ducking back down again as a hail of bullets ping over his head.

“I’m pinned down behind a rock,” comes the reply. “And stop fucking yelling at me, I’m doing the best I can! Trust me, I don’t want to be out here any longer than I have to be!”

“Well get _out_ from behind the rock, and get your ass over here!”

“Wash, tell me. Do you understand what the words _pinned down_ mean? Because to me, they mean I can’t get out!”

“Incoming!” Felix yells, interrupting their argument as a heavy artillery Warthog pulls up behind a line of sandbags and starts shooting at the alcove they’re squirreled away in. The gunners don’t get out more than a few rounds, however, before Freckles stands up and makes his way over to cover the opening they’re shooting for. The bullets don’t make it past the mantis-class droid, but they do knock it down, its wires and inner workings throwing sparks everywhere. Caboose yells out for his friend and tries to run to him, but Wash grabs his arm and hauls him back down. Droids can be repaired with relative ease, much more so than humans.

The whole battlefield suddenly pauses as huge echoing thuds start to echo around the canyon. Wash can feel them through the ground, even with his armour on. Then dust explodes out of one of the caves, which is now apparently a tunnel, followed by a stream of soldiers, all of them shouting encouragements for ‘The New Republic’.

“They’re here! That’s our backup!” Felix shouts as the soldiers use the element of surprise to take down a fair number of Feds before they start fighting back.

“En-en-engaging t-targets,” Freckles announces, shakily rising back to his feet and opening fire on the Feds.

“Get to the caves, we gotta go!” Felix says, standing up and prodding them to get them moving.

“But what about Tucker and Freckles?” Caboose wails, settling Donut over his shoulder when Wash passes him over. Wash picks up Sarge, and tells Simmons and Grif that they’re on cover fire duty. They work well as a team, and he’s stronger and has more experience carrying people anyway.

“There’s no time for us to get Tucker, and Freckles is too big for the tunnel!” Felix says. The element of surprise has worn off quickly, and Feds have started to turn the tide on the Republic soldiers, who are dropping like flies. “Now get out of here!”

“But-“

“Caboose, come on!” Grif yells, pushing him to get him moving. Caboose does so reluctantly, moving faster when the others start passing him. He doesn’t want to leave Tucker or Freckles behind, but he doesn’t want to get left behind either. That would be bad. They reach the tunnel and head though, except for Wash, who stays at the entrance, scanning the canyon for Tucker. He finds him, finally, pinned down behind a large rock, Lopez by his side, the robot holding his left arm in his right.

“Sir, if we leave now, they’ll just follow us back to headquarters!” he hears one of the soldiers say to Felix, who swears and asks for someone to get him some explosives.

“Tucker! Hurry the fuck up!” Wash yells.

“We gotta seal this tunnel!” Felix adds from behind him.

“I’m _trying_ , assholes!” Tucker yells back, peeking around the edge of the rock.

Wash quickly looks around the tunnel, trying to find something he can do to help. _Anything_ he can do to help. His eyes land on the grenades clipped to Donut’s leg. Perfect. He grabs one and rushes back to the entrance. “Tucker! On three!” he yells, holding up the grenade so that Tucker can see it, but the soldiers firing at him can’t. Tucker nods, changing his crouch from not-going-anywhere to ready-to-haul-ass. Wash holds up one finger, then two, then three, and throws the grenade as hard as he can towards the soldiers pinning down Tucker. He hears them scatter as Tucker takes off, Lopez just ahead of him. Maybe they’ll all get out of this after all, Wash thinks to himself, as he watches them sprint towards the tunnel.

Then Tucker jerks sideways and hits the ground, his helmet ripping off his head and landing a few metres away, and Locus is standing over him, his gun out and freshly used.

“Tucker!” Wash screams, lurching forwards a few steps before Felix catches his arm and yanks him back. “Tucker, get up!”

\-----

Tucker groans as he tries to push himself up off the ground. What the fuck happened? His head hurts like a bitch. Suddenly, there’s a foot in his stomach, kicking him over, and then he’s looking up into the barrel of a gun. Fuck. Behind the gun is Locus. Double fuck. He can distantly hear Wash screaming something, but everything’s kind of a bit fuzzy at the moment, so he has no idea what.

“You’ll stay down if you know what’s good for you.” Locus says, pushing the barrel of the gun against Tucker’s unprotected forehead. It’s still uncomfortably hot from the last time it was used, and if it stays against his skin Tucker’s pretty sure it’s going to leave a burn. He can feel a trickle of blood run out of his nose – he’ll be lucky if it isn’t broken after the way that blast took his helmet off.

“Fuck you,” he says through gritted teeth, before spitting out a mouthful of blood onto Locus’ foot. God blood noses suck.

He can see, out of the corner of his eye, that the Feds have taken out the last of the Republic soldiers who had stayed in the canyon to cover everyone else’s escape. They’re going to head for the tunnel next, the tunnel where Wash and Caboose and the Reds, Lopez included, are still standing, waiting for him. As much as he appreciates the sentiment, that’s really fucking stupid of them – they should have left the moment they hit the tunnel. But they _haven’t_ , and he needs to do something. He’s not going to be the reason his friends die. “FRECKLES!” he yells, slamming his foot as hard as he can into Locus’ crotch. Armoured or not, there’s only so much abuse that area can take, and it should buy him a few seconds at the least. Hopefully that’s enough. “FRECKLES, SHAKE!”

Freckles beeps a shaky affirmative and drops all of his considerable weight into one massive, ground-shaking stamp. The tunnel, already in less-than-stellar condition from when the Republic soldiers renovated it from a cave to a passageway, starts to crumble, dropping huge chunks of rock and dirt into the entrance. In the few seconds it takes the entrance to fill, Tucker knows that there’s no way the Feds are getting through there any time soon. It would take at least a week to get rid of all that shit. He smiles in satisfaction, and is still smiling when Locus’ boot connects with his head and everything goes dark.


	2. Welcome to the New Republic

Wash fights as hard as he can to get out of Felix’ grip. He’s still fighting when Locus kicks Tucker over onto his back, when Locus puts his gun to Tucker’s forehead, when Tucker kicks Locus in the crotch, when Tucker tells Freckles to shake, when Freckles obeys. Then Tucker is gone, and all Wash can see is rock. “Tucker!” he screams, redoubling his efforts. “TUCKER!” His voice echoes around the cave, because it is a cave again, now that there is only one exit. The one that leads away from Tucker. He slowly stops fighting against Felix, and sinks to his knees. He stays there for a moment, then he punches the ground. Then he does it again. And again, and again, and again. He dimly acknowledges that he’s making raw, animalistic sounds of rage and pain and sorrow, that Felix is looking on with an air of pity, that Caboose is in the background making increasingly frantic noises and questions about _where’s Tucker_. Washington is the one who’s supposed to protect these people that have come to mean so much to him, and now he’s gone and left one in the hands of the enemy. He wishes with all his heart that it could have been him instead. He’s _used_ to this kind of thing. He’s been _trained_ for it. Tucker hasn’t. Tucker has barely been trained at all, just like the rest of the Reds and Blues. He was good enough to hold his own at Sandtrap, and against the Meta, and the Tex clones (although he definitely chalks some of that up to luck, which the Reds and Blues seem to have an infinite amount of sometimes), and he’s definitely been improving since Wash started training him, but none of that matters in the face of being held hostage by an enemy. It’s a completely different kind of training altogether, one Wash doesn’t think he’d be able to teach the Reds and Blues if he tried. And not because he doesn’t think they’d be able to do it, but because _he_ wouldn’t be able to do it. He wouldn’t be able to simulate interrogation and torture on these people. He doesn’t want to think about Tucker being tortured. He feels sick.

“We can’t stay here.” Felix says after a minute, approaching Wash and carefully putting a hand on his shoulder. “We have to get back to headquarters, and get your friends looked at.” Wash guiltily remembers that Donut and Sarge aren’t in a good way, and winces when he realizes that he’d actually dropped Sarge sometime in the last couple of minutes.

“But what about Tucker?” Caboose asks in a wavery voice. “We have to wait for Tucker. He will be sad if he gets here and we are gone.”

“Tucker’s gone, Caboose.” Wash replies numbly, standing up slowly. He feels like he’s aged ten years.

“Where has he gone? Will he be back soon?” Caboose asks innocently, tilting his head to the side, and pulling Donut further up onto his shoulder.

“I don’t know, Caboose.” Wash says, telling himself over and over again that he can’t get angry at Caboose. He knows how disconnected from reality the young man can be sometimes, knows that it’s not his fault he’s asking such difficult questions. Having three AI in his head at once really did a number on him, apparently, and now it’s a good day if he can get his armour on properly without help, let alone keep track of things like whether someone has been taken by an enemy or is just in the toilet. “I don’t know when he’ll be back. Soon, I hope.”

“I hope so too,” Caboose says back seriously. “I do not like it when we are not all here. It is not fun.”

“Come on, we need to head out.” Felix says, heading past them and down into the tunnel. “You can talk on the way.”

Wash picks up Sarge again and hoists him over his shoulder, wrapping one arm over his waist and the other around the backs of his knees to keep him in place. “There’s nothing more we can do here,” he says quietly, looking at the others one by one. “Even if we could get through that landslide, they’d be long gone by the time we did. Our best bet is to go with them, and try and work out a plan once we’ve got Donut and Sarge looked after.”

“We’re just going to leave him here?” Grif asks incredulously.

“What else can we do?” Wash replies, nudging Caboose to start walking after Felix. “We can’t get through the wall, we wouldn’t know where they’ve taken him even if we could, and we wouldn’t be able to take them on to try and get him back if we _did_ find them. Trust me, I don’t like it any more than you do. Now come on. The sooner we get to their headquarters, the sooner we can start fixing Donut and Sarge.” He walks after Caboose, and hears the three Reds trudge after him.

“I’m sorry, Tucker.” he whispers to himself as they leave behind the blockage. “But we _will_ get you back. I promise.”

\-----

They make it back to the Republic headquarters after about a half hour of walking, and are introduced to Kimball, who is apparently the person in charge.

“It’s an honour to meet all of you,” she says, shaking hands with Caboose, who pumps her hand with vigour.

“It is very nice to meet you too nice lady!” he says happily, Donut bouncing up and down on his shoulder as his arm goes up and down.

“Hey Caboose, how about we let the doctors take Donut before you shake anyone else’s hands,” Wash says with a hidden wince, carefully sliding Sarge down onto one of the stretchers the doctors have procured, then taking Donut off Caboose before Caboose can do anything like accidentally drop Donut on his head.

“He got a bit blown up again.” Caboose confides in a very loud whisper to Kimball. “Admiral McMuffin does not have very good luck sometimes.”

“Well, we’ll do our best to get……Admiral McMuffin…….back into top shape.” Kimball says, looking over them all. “….I thought there was supposed to be eleven of you,” she says after a minute, her head tilting sideways. “Was our information wrong?”

“No, your information was right.” Wash replies, a hard edge to his voice. “Freckles was too big, Lopez transferred himself into Dos Point 0’s body, and Tucker was taken by Locus.”

“Debido a que sus soldados estúpidos tomaron mucho tiempo llegar allí.” he hears Lopez mutter behind him.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Kimball says, and she sounds genuine. Then she pauses. “But even if he was taken, there’s still only seven of you. Where is the last?”

Wash blinks, then turns around to do a headcount. Sarge and Donut are getting looked over, him and Caboose makes four, Grif and Simmons and Lopez makes seven, Tucker makes eight, Carolina was already gone with Epsilon by the time Felix turned up……who are they missing?

“Oh fuck, where’s Doc?” Grif says suddenly, looking around as if the medic is going to pop out of hiding.

“We’re also missing Doc.” Wash says succinctly to Kimball, before turning his attention back to his friends. “When was the last time anyone saw him?” he asks, thinking back to the canyon, trying to remember the last place he saw purple armour. “He was there when Felix turned up. What happened after that?”

“I think he came with us to go over our weapon inventory,” Simmons pipes up. “He and Grif were showing us how the future cubes worked.”

“Yeah, he was definitely there for that.” Grif agrees. “But he wasn’t there afterwards. Huh.” He turns to Simmons. “Hey Simmons, are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

“I don’t know, are you thinking that maybe he was abducted by aliens, and they’re performing horrific experiments on him?”

“……..no. I’m thinking that maybe he got sucked up into one of the future cubes, but he didn’t come back. Somehow.”

“I _suppose_ that that could have happened. But I think aliens are more likely.”

“Shut up Simmons.”

“Both of you shut up.” Wash growls, then makes himself add a “Please.” He sighs, bringing up a hand to his helmet in a futile attempt to rub his forehead and ease the headache that’s growing behind his eyes. “Grif, do you have any of those future cubes left?”

“Uh, a few?” Grif replies, pulling one out and tossing it from hand to hand. “Why?”

“Keep it with you, and ask around the camp. Maybe we’ll find someone around here that knows more about them, and what would have happened to Doc if he did get sucked into it.”

“I’m pretty sure he did,” Grif says, still tossing the cube between his hands. “Like 80% sure. Maybe 85%.”

“Well, let’s just hope that that he’s alright, wherever he is.” Wash says, and turns back to Kimball.

“I’ll have some of our technicians look at it, see if they can figure it out,” she offers. “Private Hiklu is especially good at figuring out new tech.”

“We’d appreciate that.” Wash says, nodding gratefully.

“Anyway, I have a proposition for all of you.” Kimball announces. “One that would be beneficial for all parties involved.”

“What kind of proposition?” Wash asks, tilting his head sideways a little.

“We’d like for you to join the New Republic, at least for a while. Your skills and experience would benefit us greatly, and having famous heroes on our side would really boost morale. In exchange, you get allies. More people to help you fight, more people to help you find your friend. We’d make you captains, put you in charge of your own teams. All of you have your own unique skills, skills that we could use. Badly.”

Wash hears Grif snigger behind him. “Hey Simmons,” the Red says, nudging Simmons in the side. “Can you imagine the look on Sarge’s face if he were to wake up and find out we’d been made captains? And that we’re _famous heroes_?”

“He’d probably shoot you to make sure he wasn’t having a nightmare.” Simmons replies.

“I had a captain once,” Caboose says to no-one in particular. “He told me to never look back.”

No, Wash thinks to himself, he told you to never _come_ back, the asshole.

“Those sound like very wise words,” Kimball says. “He must have been a good captain.”

“Oh, he was,” Caboose replies enthusiastically. “He let me play with Miss Tank and Mr Warthog! Although he got a bit angry when they exploded. It was not my fault though. Tucker did it.”

“Tucker absolutely did _not_ do it.” Wash says indignantly. “Tucker wasn’t even _there_.”

“Tucker did it.” Caboose says again, this time in a loud whisper.

Wash sighs, and then turns back to Kimball. He can see in the way she’s holding herself that she's starting to think that just maybe this might not be such a good idea. “We don’t really have anywhere else to go, or anything else to do.” he says, shrugging one shoulder. “If everyone else agrees, I’m in.” It’d be nice to have an actual goal other than just ‘survive’, and he’ll have a much better chance of finding Tucker if he has a secure base of operations, and more than just the Reds and Blues as backup.

Kimball turns to the others. “What do you say?”

“I will do it!” Caboose says excitedly. “Then I will be a captain, like Captain Crunch!”

Grif sighs. “This is going to end up with me doing _work_ , and _exercise_ , isn’t it.”

“Don’t be such a lazy asshole.” Simmons scolds.

“Simmons, lazy asshole is my natural state.” Grif replies, then sighs again. “But I’m in, I guess.”

“Me too,” Simmons says, nodding. “Lopez? What about you?”

“Creo que tienes todos los idiotas de mierda, y tu vas a conseguir que nos maten a todos.”

“He says yes.”

“Great,” Kimball says. “And we’ll ask your other friends, once they wake up. Are they likely to say yes?”

“Sarge will, I think.” Wash says. “I think he’s very much of the opinion that -” he clears his throat and does his best Sarge impression, “The only good Blue is a dead Blue! But I’ll be darned if anyone but me is gonna kill ‘em!”

“You’re getting better,” Grif notes. “That was almost exactly like him.”

“Thanks,” Wash replies. “And Donut will probably say yes as well, and manage to sneak in some kind of innuendo. Looks like you got yourself a group of soldiers. I use the term soldiers very loosely though.”

“Wonderful.” Kimball says. “I’ll get to work on assigning squads to each of you then.

“I do have one request.” Wash says, turning back to Kimball.

“Ask away,” Kimball says.

“Can you not make Sarge a captain? He’s……pretty attached to his rank, I think, and I’d really rather not go through the arguments I can already hear. Just put him in charge of a squad without making him a captain?”

“I think we can do that,” Kimball says, nodding. “Everyone in the camp knows about all of you, I don’t think it will make a difference if one of you is a sergeant instead of a captain.”

“Thanks,” Wash says.

“Excuse me, Commander Kimball?” a soldier says, coming to a stop beside the group. “The pink one is awake, and Doctor Timpa says that the red one will probably wake up within fifteen minutes.”

“Thank you, Private Kaneet.” Kimball replies, before turning back to them. “Well, gentlemen, let’s go see your friends.”


	3. Waking Up

A bucket of water being dumped over his head brings Tucker back to the land of the living. At least, he assumes it’s the land of the living. He’s pretty sure his head wouldn’t hurt as much as it does if he was dead. “Mother _fucker_ ,” he groans, working his jaw around to check it isn’t dislocated or anything. It seems fine. That’s one less thing to worry about.

“How nice of you to join us again,” he hears, and yeah, that’s Locus standing over him with an empty bucket. Fucker.

“Well, I would have been up earlier, but getting punched out tends to make me a bit sleepy.” he replies snarkily, moving to push himself up from the wall he’s leaned against, and then settling back down when he realises that his wrists are tethered to the wall. He tugs at his right wrist experimentally, but the ropes are thick and strong, and he’s pretty sure he isn’t going anywhere anytime soon. He has maybe ten centimetres of buckmesh rope for each wrist, not even enough to be able to touch his hands together, let alone try to pick the microfilament cuffs.

“Your sense of humour will not do you any favours here.” Locus says, tossing the bucket out the door of the cell they’re in. Someone must be standing outside to catch it, because Tucker doesn’t hear any of the loud crashing noises he’d expect to hear from someone throwing a bucket out a door.

“To be fair, I don’t think there’s really much of anything that’s going to do me favours in here,” Tucker replies, blinking rapidly and contorting his face as a trickle of water leaks out of his hair and runs down into his eye. Fuck that’s annoying. “What with being a prisoner of a homicidal maniac and all.” He pauses for a second. “Although I’m only assuming you’re a homicidal maniac. You might not be. I’m leaning towards you being one though. It’s in the words, and the creepy aura, and the trying to kill us all, you know? Sometimes you can just _tell_.” It’s probably not the smartest idea to piss off the guy who’s holding him prisoner, but then he’s never really been one for smart ideas. That’s Wash’s area of expertise. Or more his area of expertise, at least. He still has some pretty dumb ideas sometimes.

Apparently Locus decides to ignore his smartassery. “I want information about your little team.” he says, stepping closer and crossing his arms.

“Information? Sure, why didn’t you say so?” Tucker says, pulling up his knees and leaning forward to wipe the water out of his eyes with the soft material of his pants. That’s better. Wait, his pants? Alright, apparently they’ve take all his armour off. He probably should have noticed that earlier. “OK, let’s see. Caboose likes to go out and watch the stars on clear nights, and whenever he tries to help with the laundry everything turns pink. We have no idea how. Grif can eat his own body weight in Oreos. I’ve seen him do it, swear to god. Simmons has a photographic memory. They’ve got some serious sexual tension on, but no-one knows whether they’re actually doing it or not. Donut is an amazing baker, but he can’t cook to save his life. He’s burned water _six times_. Sarge is a mechanical genius. He once built a working catapult out of spoons, a knife, a bike chain, and three slices of bread. I’m pretty sure Lopez is cussing us all out every time he speaks. Doc’s methods sound extremely questionable, but work surprisingly well. Tex could bench-press me and Caboose at the same time. Church used to speak Japanese when he was asleep. My armour belonged to my first captain, until I stole it off his dead body. Wash is a surprisingly good artist. You wouldn’t think it to talk to him, but he loves drawing kittens, and the drawings are _good_ man. Like seriously amazing. And Sister can do this thing with her hips-” A fist slams into his jaw, cutting off his sentence and whipping his head sideways. Locus hits him a second time, a third, a fourth. Something comes loose in his mouth on the fifth, and falls onto the floor with a soft clatter in the sixth.

“ _Proper_ information.” Locus says, stepping back and flicking his hand to remove some drops of blood from the metal.

Tucker spits out blood, probes the gap where there used to be a molar with his tongue, and then turns his head back to Locus, and grins through bloodied teeth at the mercenary. “Is that the worst you got?” he asks. “Dude, an alien baby that I was surprise-impregnated with tore its way out of my stomach. I’ve had aliens use acid stuff to tattoo my back with their ancient symbol shit. I’ve been shot through the hand. I’ve taken a rocket to the side. I’ve survived half a year trapped in an ancient alien temple in the desert, alone, with a small army of humans and elites trying to kill me. I’ve helped take on an army of Tex clones, Tex herself, and an insane man with a head full of rampaging AIs who had the strength of twenty bears. Your little punches aren’t _shit_.”

“You _will_ give me the information I want to know.” Locus says. “I can promise you things will only get worse if you don’t. I want to know skills. Experience. Tactics.”

“Tactics?” Tucker repeats, laughing. “You wanna know our tactics? Our _tactics_ are to shoot, stab, run over and run away from everything until either they’re dead or we’re dead. We don’t _do_ planning. Every single time we try to plan things, they go to shit. We learnt a long time ago that winging it is the only way we have a chance.” He snorts, shaking his head. “Tactics.” he mumbles to himself derisively.

Locus huffs out a small sigh. “I had hoped you would be more co-operative. Oh well.” He turns and head for the door. “You will be given half a piece of bread and a cup of water every day, until you give me the information I want. Once you do, you will be treated to three steady meals a day. It is your choice.”

Tucker rolls his eyes as the drama queen leaves the room, the door shutting with a loud clang behind him. He spits out another mouthful of blood and saliva. “Bread and water?” he mutters quietly to himself. “I’ll take bread and water. It’s gotta be better than the shit I had back at the temple.” He’d very quickly gone through what little fresh-ish food he’d had there, and had eventually been forced to start eating the dehydrated field rations. Which had been _tolerable_ , at the very least, right up until he’d run out of enough water to be able to both drink regularly enough to keep himself alive _and_ rehydrate the food. After three weeks of choking down dehydrated beef stew, spaghetti, and tuna, pretty much any food, including bread and water, was perfectly fine.

God, it’s fucking cold in this room. “Can I get a heater on in here or something?” he calls, scooting backwards so his back’s against the wall, then rolling his shoulders and back against it in a pretty pitiful attempt to squeeze as much of the cold water out of his singlet as he can. “I mean, wouldn’t want me to get hypothermia or anything. Pretty hard to get information out of a dead body.”

It might just be his imagination, but not long after that, he thinks he feels the room heat up a little. Not much, but enough that he no longer feels like he could actually possibly freeze to death. He grins to himself. It’s a small victory, but he’ll take it. There’s lots of battles in a war, and he’ll fight them one by one as he comes across them, until he comes out on top. Bow chicka bow wow.


End file.
